Adventures of a Salt Kissed Life….

Getting Underway

Patrick and Fajita on Neverland the day before we set out on the water.

Thursday, June 27th, 2024. A day of reckoning, perhaps, or merely a step into the unknown. Neverland, our recently acquired 1981, 41-foot sailboat and soon-to-be home, was ready to carry us up the coast on our first solo cruise. We would launch from Little River, South Carolina, and motor up the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW) 180 nautical miles north to New Bern, North Carolina. There we would spend half a year reviving the vintage Bristol, learn the dark arts of sailcraft, and prepare for a winter of sun, rum, and reckless abandon in the Caribbean. Perfect circumstances promised a three-day sprint to our destination, but we suspected it might be more of a four-day crawl.

Since we are entry-level sailors, we opted for motoring the protected ICW rather than sailing offshore. Land in sight? Check. No sails to wrestle with? Double check. We were trading wind for safety, or so we told ourselves. Our speed would be about six knots. That’s about as fast as a determined little old lady on a Sunday afternoon drive. My favorite speed for leisurely observing the lives of the coastal elite and their McMansions. Of course, the ICW is no cakewalk for a sailboat. It's a watery obstacle course, strewn with treacherous shoals, temperamental bridges, and the occasional rogue shrimp boat.

Depth was our biggest concern. Unlike those smug, flat-bottomed pleasure boats, we have a keel… A fancy word for a big, underwater fin that counteracts the pressure of the wind above, but that also makes us awfully picky about where we plant our feet — or rather, our hull. Neverland's keel is a centerboard, it goes up and down. This adaptability allows us to explore both the warm waters of the Caribbean and the colder climates of Norway, Scotland, and Maine — places I'm particularly eager to visit. With a current draft of four and a half feet, we require at least five feet of water to avoid scraping along the bottom of the channel. So, in other words, charts, my darling, charts. Lots and lots of charts.

Patrick, bless his heart, spent months poring over maps and charts. His final weapon of choice: the Navionics app, supplemented with a Bob’s Tracks overlay. Who is Bob? Some benevolent seafaring deity? A group of overachieving sailors? Your guess is as good as mine, but one thing’s for sure their digital bread crumbs were our lifeline, guiding us through a watery labyrinth. And to hedge our bets against catastrophe, we armed ourselves with a small arsenal of devices: 2 phones, 2 laptops, and a Google Pixel tablet. Because when it comes to staying alive on the water, redundancy is the new black.

Example of our chart

The thick white area is the channel. Most powerboats can zoom all over it (We’ll call it ”Lava”), but the thin line is our safe zone. We must stay in to not hit ground.

Young Hearts, Run Free

The night before the Great Undocking, we were a pair of delusional admirals, plotting our nautical conquest from the confines of our tiny cabin. Thirty thousand pounds of boat, a tangled jungle of ropes, and a sea of uncertainty stretched before us. We practiced our best “Captain and First Mate” voices while dissecting each move, line by line, scenario by scenario. Would she drift left? Right? Into the neighbor's boat? A cocktail of apprehension and naive confidence, we were ready to conquer the world, or at least the marina.

No alarm clock was needed; two newbs masquerading as seasoned mariners, we sprang into action at the first sliver of light. Lines released, engine roared, and there we were, floating free from the wooden dock that had restrained us. I turned to look back and saw the seller’s broker, waving. "I came to help!" she shouted, her voice echoing across the water. So much for the rescue plan. But the thrill of independence was intoxicating. We had done it. Us. Just the two of us. A tiny victory, perhaps, but a giant leap for our confidence in each other. "We've got this," I whispered to Patrick, our unspoken pact of trust sealed with seawater.

The sweetest Broker! She ran back up to her deck to catch this shot of us heading out. So priceless to have our first outing on the boat on video Thank you Beth!!

Perfect Day

Our first day at sea was a gilded dream, marred only by the glaring incompetence of our fancy new tablet. A useless, overpriced paperweight when it came to navigation. No GPS? Really? Don’t those things automatically come with GPS these days? I say again, Google Pixel Tablet does not have GPS, just FYI. We were forced to rely on the small screens of our little phones, juggling them like hot potatoes to avoid running out of juice. But hey, the storm clouds were receding behind us with clear blue skies ahead, and life is about overcoming challenges, right? Or at least that’s what I told myself as I clutched my phone like a lifeline.

We spent the day chatting about upcoming adventures, munching on dried figs and pistachios, punctuating our idle chatter with bird names and dolphin sightings. The Cape Fear River welcomed us with an outgoing tide. Seven knots turned into nine! We were speeding right along, at a less than glacial pace. Even Fajita, our furry first mate, was getting into the spirit. A little wobbly at first, but soon she was sprawled out in the cockpit, soaking up the sun like a seasoned sailor.

We reached Wrightsville Beach around four o'clock and found a perfect spot with a little sandbar to row to (our dinghy's outboard motor wasn't working). Our first anchoring attempt was a success, which, of course it was. In my mathematical genius, I misjudged our every twenty feet of marked chain for ten, resulting in putting out double the amount of scope needed for the job. We rowed Fajita to the beach, where she reveled in her freedom, leaving a trail of zoomies in the sand. Her playful antics caught the attention of the neighboring sailboat. The couple motored over to introduce themselves. They showed us pictures of Fajita's doppelganger (their dog, Burrito — how perfect!), and invited us over for snacks and tales of the sea. We discovered they lived in Oriental, a charming town close to New Bern where seemingly every backyard boasts a sailboat. Then, in a display of true Southern hospitality, they graciously towed us back to our boat. As we watched the sun paint the sky with pinks and oranges, we were feeling giddy, maybe a little cocky. In a dangerous surge of brashness I let the words slip through my lips, "this isn't that hard," a foolish whisper against the backdrop of a perfect day.

Message from the future...Christa and David are now friends, whose boat we have crewed on and Burrito is Fajita’s best friend in New Bern

Mercury Retrograde Kicks In

The cabin felt like a sauna. Trying to conserve our batteries, we put too much stock in a single fan manically whirring in futile defiance of the heat. By 2 a.m., I was a puddle. Desperate, I bolted up the companionway, seeking sanctuary in the breezy albeit buggier cockpit. Restless tossing and turning commenced on the hard bench cushions. It was camping without the charm of the woods.

5 a.m. The world was still sleeping, but we were wide awake and eager to maintain our three day pace. A turn of the key, and our optimism collided with a sickening click. We gave it a second try.....silence. One last attempt confirmed it: dead batteries. Just like that, we were officially cruisers. The kind who rely on ducktape, critical thinking, and a lot of flexibility.

I rowed Fajita to the beach while Patrick called for a tow. As I climbed back aboard, I discovered my phone had jumped ship, fleeing from my pocket the moment it had a chance. Grateful for the foresight that prompted me to check the insurance box on this recent purchase, I acknowledged what its absence added to our situation. Navigation now hinged solely on Patrick's remaining phone. We'd have to be very careful with its battery life, our technological reliance didn’t allow for paper charts this trip.

Our knight in shining steel arrived quickly. That Towboat US membership sure did pay for itself quickly. We surrendered to fate and let him nudge us towards Dockside Restaurant. A quick charge, we thought. In and out before the weekend crowd. We plugged in, we waited, and then... nothing.

Low blood sugar is not conducive to brilliant problem-solving. We opted for the sensible approach: pancakes at nearby Drift Cafe. Meanwhile, Wrightsville Beach was waking up. Boats buzzed past, kayakers and paddleboarders dotted the water, and the restaurant docks lining the sides were starting to fill up.

We returned to find Dockside transformed into a bustling weekend hotspot. Our boat, however, was still as dead as a doornail. Disappointment was starting to set in. Was this the end? Had our batteries chosen mutiny? The question loomed large: tow or no tow? The marina beckoned, a promise of power and air conditioning.

Patrick, in a moment of sheer brilliance, decided to defy the odds. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t our batteries, but a dead charging station playing a practical joke. With a MacGyver-like move, he cobbled together two power cords and struck gold. Juice! Actual, live juice! We whooped, we hollered, we ordered something frozen and blue.

About forty-five minutes later we glanced at the clock. Only seven minutes remained before the drawbridge would open on the hour. We rushed to get to the boat. We worked in a flurry, untying lines and preparing for departure. "All clear, pull ahead!" I yelled. But the universe, in its infinite cruelty, had other plans. The current, a relentless bully, slammed us back into the dock.

Panic surged through me. Pulling out all my best parkour. moves, I scurried to the front leaping over cleats, ducking under lines, and weaving through the jungle that was the rigging of our boat. Fruitlessly, I tried using the boat hook to push us away from the dock while my focus sharpened on the very expensive fishing boat we were closing in on. And then, to my surprise, the cavalry arrived. Men were materializing from all directions (no doubt the owners of the expensive fishing boats surrounding us). It was a ballet of chaos, a symphony of grunts and colorful language. With full throttle and the brawn of strangers, we managed to exit our parking space unscathed.

We were the main event, a dockside reality show, but we had no time to shake the nerves, the bridge loomed ahead. With a lump in my throat, I switched the VHF radio to channel 13 and hailed the drawbridge operator. "Wrightsville Beach Bridge, this is Know Return..." (a terrible name, we knew, but a temporary one until registration). "Requesting bridge opening."

The response was a gut punch. "Next openin's noon," the voice crackled over the radio. “#?!*” (insert your favorite expletive here). Looking around, there were little boats everywhere. Those pesky little boats all smug in their ability to fit right under the bridge, weaving about, buzzing around us like gnats. We inched closer to the imposing steel arch, but our mast blocked our passage.

It seemed like we were headed for collision, but Patrick masterfully gave the wheel a 180 spin, we swirled around like a tortoise on a carrousel, without so much as grazing a passing paddleboarder. But the damage was already done. Our egos were bruised and the audience of onlookers thoroughly entertained.

Our morning was a baptism by battery. Lesson one: don’t be a dummy and leave the starter battery on, rookie mistake. But the real lesson was something deeper. We shouldn’t have rushed getting off the dock. We lacked the patience to pick the right moment. Like a good wine or a perfectly ripe tomato, some things just need time. Experienced sailors know this. We, apparently, were still green.

With an hour to kill, we decided to reacquaint ourselves with Neverland. We motored her back and forth at a safe distance from the bustling harbor. Although she is sturdy and beautiful, she is not the most agile of athletes, she responded to the throttle like a moody teenager, and a little red flag was beginning to wave: she was running a fever. Not a full-blown crisis as the engine temperature only rose in neutral or reverse and quickly normalized in forward gear, but definitely a symptom of something amiss.

Noon finally arrived, heralded by the alarm of the drawbridge opening. Our hope of keeping the pace had been depleted into two and a half more days of travel. We were now contemplating the best place to call it early, drop anchor, and cool things down a bit.

And Another One

I had been steering for a good hour, starting to become numb to the Saturday power boaters whizzing by, their wakes aggressively see-sawing us from one wave to the next. I was adapting, convincing myself I was a creature of the sea. Then I heard it, the engine coughed, a phlegmy mechanical interruption which then sputtered into silence. "Stay calm," I muttered to myself, a plea to the rapid tempo of my heart.

Thankfully, traffic was light at the moment as we bobbed listlessly about. Looking at each other in utter confusion of what to do next, I tried to hold the wheel steady, fighting to maintain our position in the middle of the channel. “Ummm, I’m going to try something.” Patrick said as he dashed towards one of the fuel cans secured on deck. While he worked to get the can open and pour the diesel, I crossed my fingers that the current wouldn’t push us somewhere we didn’t want to be. A fresh two gallons were in the tank, "Okay, try starting her up!" With fumbling haste, I checked, we were in neutral, inserted the key, and turned. Oh happy day, the engine surprisingly roared back to life!

A quick inspection of the gauges below deck left Patrick scratching his head. "There's still plenty of fuel," he muttered. We wouldn't question our luck, though. We did, however; have another reason to start looking for an anchorage. With limited options until Morehead City, we found a lonely creek to lick our wounds and ponder our next move. No other sailboats for company, and no beach for Fajita to explore. But it would give our engine the rest it needed.

The afternoon was a three-ring circus: potty training a 5 year old dog to go on a boat, waving at strangers mocking us with their best pirate impressions, and playing amateur mechanic. We phoned some friends for their trusted advice. Messing with the sails on our own without prior instruction? That had been one of my non-negotiables for making this trip without a Captain. But the wise words found their way into my ear. A little sail for backup, they said. A safety net, a Plan B if the motor went out. So, tomorrow, we'd do a bit of both: sailing and motoring. A hybrid, if you will.

As the night slipped by, we noticed the boat's bow wasn't responding to wind or current as it should when the anchor is properly set. Instead of being angled out in front, the anchor chain ran straight down from the bow, curving ominously under the boat. Was our anchor wrapped around the keel? Diving down to investigate, Patrick thankfully confirmed the anchor was not wrapped around anything; however, the tide had turned against us — we were aground.

It was at this time that I managed to break our windlass. A windlass anchor system is a mechanical marvel that handles the load of raising and lowering the back-breaking weight of an anchor. Unfortunately, in our attempt to kick ourselves off the sandbar, I held down the button to reel the chain in while we were reversing, frying the motor of the windlass, and adding manual anchor deployment and retrieval to our growing list of challenges.

We were hostages to the tide, a captive audience to her mercurial moods. We would give up on getting ourselves off the ground and wait for her to raise us back up. Low tide wasn’t finished and as the boat tilted at an increasingly precarious angle, a silver lining emerged: our hatches morphed into makeshift air conditioners. The world, it seemed, was conspiring to keep us cool. Life, it turns out, is a series of ups and downs. Our whole trip unraveled like this. We were learning to find joy in the struggle, to appreciate the kindness of strangers, and to marvel at the absurd beauty of our predicaments.

Eventually, the tide, ever the benevolent dictator, she did stand us back up. Our accidental air conditioning was now a relic of the past. As dawn approached, emerging from the depths of the boat, I was blanketed by the peacefulness of the night. There, spread out before me, was a celestial masterpiece: a million diamonds scattered carelessly across the inky, black sky. In that moment, with the world hushed and the stars ablaze, I almost forgot the entire, craziness of the day.

Speak No Evil (of Smooth Sailing):

Sunday morning was a gift, wrapped in silence and solitude. The NC coast was still tucked in bed, dreaming of church bells and biscuits. I was finally getting the hang of manning the helm, making small, subtle shifts of the giant wheel instead of overcorrecting at every turn, zigzagging us across the channel, and confusing any oncoming traffic heading our way. Patrick, with his intense focus, scanned the map, searching for a suitable docking spot in Moorehead City. With our trusty sail billowing in the wind, it felt like we'd weathered the storm, finally settling into a nice ride.

The warmth of gratitude was swelling in my heart, when I heard the raggedy cough of our engine flaring up again. Choking, choking, dead… again. In the grand scheme of things, we were fortunate. This was the moment we’d been dreaming of — the boat, a silent swan gliding through the water, propelled by nothing but the wind and a touch of magic. Gone were the engine’s angry growls, replaced by the sweet song of birds and the playful splashes of fish. The vibration had ceased, and in its place, I felt the gentle pulse of the water. Even the air was different — clean, fresh, and free from the stench of diesel.

We had become one with the elements, part of a larger, more beautiful world. Patrick grabbed another fuel can to see if our magic fix could work again. For twenty glorious minutes, we existed outside of time, suspended in a bubble of tranquilty. Then, with a turn of the key, the engine roared back to life, shattering our perfect moment. The damage, however, was done. I was hooked on this silent, gliding existence, and we could now confirm that our fuel gauge is a pathological liar.

The Battle of Sugarloaf

Moorehead City was in our sights, and we had to plot our attack. Slack tide was our target for arrival, a fleeting moment of calm before the current's fury. And then there was the issue of the dinghy, the small inflatable little boat that looked so innocent but was so very heavy. We needed to haul it back on deck before rounding Sugar Loaf Island. A simple enough concept, until you factor in the broken windlass and sick engine. To translate, I would be manually deploying our 45-pound anchor with a chain whipping around heavy enough to break an ankle. We would then expend a herculean effort to hoist said dinghy up and onto the deck of our boat. Afterwards, Patrick would muscle all 50 feet of scope, plus the anchor back up before completing the last mile or so to the dock, all this while our engine would be heating to an uncomfortable temperature. It felt like a game of chicken, but the thought of that dinghy getting tangled up around something while we had the already difficult task of docking our boat was good reason to pull the trigger.

We found a spot to anchor, a less-than-ideal compromise between sanity and necessity. A little too close to the rocky teeth of Sugar Loaf Island for comfort, but it was a mere pit stop and we hoped to be on our way quickly. Patrick maneuvered us into position, and I took my place at the bow. I counted out the amount of chain we would need for the drop and cleated it off on deck. Carefully, I laid out the chain so it would avoid getting tied up on itself, anything on the deck, or my limbs.

I battled with the weight of the anchor to get it unclipped, then waited. "Drop it!", the signal from the helm rang out, I lowered it slowly to the water, then moved myself out of the way as the metal chain sped past me at an alarming rate. Once set, we looked apprehensively at the closeness of the island's shores.

We hurried to pull the dinghy to the side of the boat and then braced for the strength it would take to heave it over the railings. "One, two, three!" I shouted, a battle cry before the charge. Reaching over, we grabbed the dinghy and wrestled it up halfway. "One, two, three!" I grunted, a guttural plea for assistance as we pulled a third of its weight onto the railings, the wood groaning in protest. "One...two...three..." I panted, as we summoned every ounce of strength, willing the dinghy over and onto the boat.

Looking over to the island, we could see we were drifting closer to the rocks. Patrick cranked the engine back up. He wanted to keep it in neutral while anchored, hoping to keep us from drifting further while we waited for slack tide. Glancing down at the engine’s temperature, I noticed it had crept up to 220. "The engine is hot again," I said, masking my panic in a calm tone. Patrick, who was now busy getting fenders into position, mumbled something about needing to keep it in neutral a bit more. I watched the needle continue to jump up. "I think we should turn it off," my voice now rising into a higher octave. "We are good in low gear, just for a little bit longer," he replied. Still climbing, "It’s 240, Patrick!!! I’m turning it off!!" Finally understanding the urgency, he agreed, "Yes, turn off the engine."

I sprinted down the companionway into the cabin, a madwoman flinging open hatches and cabinets like a possessed pirate. We needed to give our overheating engine a ten-minute time-out. Just enough time to cool us down, round the corner of the island, and the dock would be right there. Turning the engine back on I prayed to see anything under 190 on that gauge. But the needle hovered at 200, our boats defiant middle finger to her new owners.

The engine had to stay in low gear while Patrick pulled the anchor up. Again the needle climbed it’s way back to the 240 danger zone. We switched seats when the anchor was secured and Patrick steered the rest of the way. Once he picked up the pace, the engine temperature dropped to 220, a small victory. We were nearing the finish line, and rounding in on the dock. Bailing and circling back around has always been discussed in our docking strategies, for moments when we are coming in too fast, or feel uncomfortable about anything. "I'm going to circle back," Patrick yelled, but I couldn't wait another second in suspense for our engine to blow. "No! I've got this!" I roared, my inner superhero emerging. As we were careening towards the dock, I flashed back to summers with Uncle Lewis and Aunt Dolly: "Never use your body to stop a boat." I grabbed the boat hook. I felt like a gladiator lowering my shoulder and pushing back the advance as I rammed that hook into the piling. The boat hook collapsed in on itself and the boat bounced into the slip.

I had the mid ship line in hand ready to tie us off, but the 18 knot winds had pushed us too far to the right and away from the dock. We threw the line to a good samaritan who thankfully helped pull us over and into place. We tied ourselves up. There it was again......relief.

Our dock in Moorehead City.

We were walking, talking petri dishes of stress sweat. We needed a shower, a good meal, and another night of good sleep. Plugged into shore power with the air conditioner humming in our ears, we looked over plans for the next day. This should be our last day of travel, the shortest leg of the trip. Twenty-eight nautical miles more to New Bern. We would pass through the Pamlico Sound and then into the protection of Adam's Creek all the way up to the Neuse River. The forecasts called for a rainy, windy day, so we would have our foul weather gear at the ready. Looking to slack tide again for our timing, we would need to be fueled and ready to depart at 10:00.

The Last Leg

Let's just say, gym memberships are a waste of money in this floating life. Lugging two forty-pound fuel cans half a mile at 7:30 in the morning qualifies as a full-body workout in my book. After stopping for my fourth five-minute break, two men from a nearby boat tour business took pity on me and let me borrow their wheelbarrow. This boating community is a special breed. We'd heard the rumors, but now we were living it. We had encountered so many helpful strangers on this trip. Patrick had a good perspective on the matter: when you're boating, you've more than likely experienced the need for a helping hand once or twice. It's easier for this community to put themselves in someone else's shoes; they've all been humbled before, too.

We managed to escape the dock with only minor scars on our teak trim. The wind was a relentless force the first half of the day. What sound? The Pamlico felt more like the wild ocean. We heard clattering and clanging, as we hadn’t properly stowed for an offshore experience. Adam's Creek, thankfully, was a refuge from the aggressive rocking, and I’m proud to say I still haven’t gotten seasick yet. It was quite lovely being the lone boat drifting up the creek in the light pitter-patter of the afternoon rain. The cool, gray day turned into a welcome respite from the sun’s assault we had experienced earlier in the trip, and before we knew it, we were hailing the Cunningham Bridge, conveniently located right in front of our slip.

We arrived in New Bern around 5:30, the witching hour of traffic jams and bridge closures. I had read that the bridge would take opening requests starting at 6:00, we could easily motor around until then, keeping our engine at a nice 160 degrees. I hailed the operator, "Next bridge opening is 6:30." No, no, nooooooo, an hour to wait. We would anchor.

As I prepared to drop the anchor, a silent prayer echoed in my head. “Please watch over us,” I pleaded. The sun peeked through the clouds, like a warm embrace, a sign, a promise of protection. We’d been watched over this entire journey, every stumble a lesson learned, every near-disaster a character-building exercise. Everything had been necessary to our progress, and nothing had been too catastrophic to handle. We were becoming sailors, forged in the fires of adversity. This was the road less traveled, a path of challenges and rewards. Our perspective was shifting, expanding to encompass the vastness of the sea and the resilience of the human spirit.

We began the now familiar ritual of setting the anchor, getting lines and fendors in place, and planning our strategy for docking. Luckily our marina was well protected from the elements. We would pass G, E, D, C docks before turning down B. Then, just an easy bow thrust or two and into our slip, 31.

Ten minutes until showtime, and Patrick was already wrestling with the anchor. He was a one-man tug-of-war crew, determined to conquer this metal beast without resorting to engine power. It had of course gotten hot while shifting in neutral and reverse to deploy and set the anchor, so we were waiting as long as we could before firing her back up. Here we go again, engine turned on we were already at 200. Keeping it in low gear until we had the anchor up, we jumped to 220. I could feel tightness in my chest. 6:26 anchor was up, we were moving forward and toward the the bridge, but I heard no alarms signaling any plans to open. 6:30 there it stood still closed. We were idling there waiting as our engine was getting hotter. Patrick hailed the operator again. "Cunningham Bridge this is Know Return requesting a bridge opening"....."Whelp you're two minutes late but I'll open it for you." he had forgotten we hailed at 5:30. I wanted to grab that vhf and unleash a tirade of epic proportions. Patrick thankfully stopped me, "He's opening it for us, let's be thankful for that." As we waited, our engine temperature soared towards critical mass. We had reached 240.

I was trying to do my best zen master impression, box breathing and focusing my sights on the destination ahead, visualizing us pulling into our slip. Just get us through this bridge. We passed through the steel barrier, my heart slowing to a normal pace, I could hear the engine rumbling along with significant effort. We passed e dock, then d, started slowing down past c, we would turn on b. Booom.....Hissssssssssss, that sound could only mean one thing, I looked up at Patrick alarmed, but with surprisingly less panic and more steely resolve. "Fire suppression system," he shouted. Our bodies took over with a knowing from another lifetime. We quickly switched places. I grabbed the wheel as Patrick headed for the anchor. I steered us out of the middle of the channel and used the bow thrusters to get us into anchoring position with the wind direction. The anchor splashed into the water. Still adrift, but we had been significantly slowed and could get familiar with our surroundings.

The current was pushing us to the swing bridge (a bridge for the train), not an option to get hung up on. Behind us a little beach and park, we would be aground if we floated that way, but to the left, we saw old pilings from a dock washed away. This could be a possible option if we couldn’t get the anchor set. I pulled out the tablet to check the depths around us. Plenty of depth here, plenty of depth here, oh no, clicking on the area right below us I see "RESTRICTED, DO NOT ANCHOR, CABLE AREA". Plan b is now plan a.

We used all of our left over adrenaline to lift the dinghy back over the railings and into the water. Patrick jumped into action tying lines together, then paddling out toward the large wood beacons of hope. He wrapped the line around the piling and then frantically paddled back. He climbed back on board and hand, over hand we tugged our boat broadside to the pilings where we could tie up. There we were secured, battered, and bruised, longingly looking at our slip just a baseball throw’s away.

That is our Marina right in front of us!

A wave of relief washed over me, followed by a tsunami of tears. Patrick held me tight while I sobbed and sobbed. So many emotions that had run through me over the past couple of days: fear, joy, exhaustion, relief, gratefulness, they were all existing simultaneously and bubbling out of me like a volcanic eruption.

We needed food, so Patrick convinced me to leave our haven in the water and head for wings and mozarella sticks. With Fajita in tow we rowed our dinghy across the water and parked it in B31. “See we did make it to our slip afterall.” Patrick smurked. A smile slowly broadened into healing belly laughs. We had made it to New Bern, safely with a good story to boot.

Home Sweet Home

That evening on the boat was the coolest yet. The Northerly Winds brought along temps in the 60's. It felt like the cool mountain air we had left behind blew in with us. I rowed Fajita to the beach, and then we called the Marina to see what we needed to do next. They would be able to push us into the slip with the pump out boat, but not until 3:00. We spent the day getting to know our new town.

New Bern is a hidden gem, a charming blend of Charleston's history and Brevard's small-town warmth. We were smitten. At 3:00, the rescue squad arrived — a pump-out boat, sent by our marina. We cast off from our makeshift mooring and they pushed us across the way. As we approached the dock, I started to see men climbing off of their boats and heading to ours. I welled up with tears at the site of this welcoming committee — a band of boat-owning brothers ready to lend a hand.

We were home for the next five months. A place to rest, to learn, to grow. This journey had been a crash course in seamanship. We were stronger, wiser, and more connected than ever before. The next adventure was on the horizon, but for now, we were content to simply be here.